The Whistler
by ThuraofThule
Summary: The Winchesters are out on a hunt in the woods. They think they're after a wendigo. Turns out, this thing they're hunting is nothing they've ever seen before. When the two eldest Winchesters are taken out, what will Sam do to save his family? Rated T because of swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**The Whistler**

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _I do not own Supernatural or anything related to it._

 ** _Summary:_** _The Winchesters are out on a hunt in the woods. They think they're after a wendigo. Turns out, this thing they're hunting is nothing they've ever seen before. When the two eldest Winchesters are taken out, what will Sam do to save his family?_

 **Chapter 1: We all fall down**

Sam is having a bad day. And, in true Winchester fashion, bad days for Sam aren't just bad. They are catastrophic.

So, of course Sam isn't just late for school. He also forgets his schoolbag. Naturally, today is the final day to hand in the enormous history project that he has been working on for three weeks. The one in his schoolbag. At home. Then, he's pulled out of school early by a severely pissed-off Dean (which isn't really Dean's fault, anyone will get angry if they are called away from the date with that hot barista they have been flirting with for the past month) to go on some hunt that is apparently vastly important to the mighty John Winchester. Needless to say, this earns said John Winchester a harsh argument with Sam, and everyone ends up with a foul mood and a great urge to shoot something.

The hunt itself is also a disaster from beginning to end. It's rainy, and windy. The terrain is terrible, and the thickness of the trees and brush really leave no room to manoeuvre. Sam, whose legs are sometimes too long for his body, has a hard time with the excess of roots and uneven ground. To Dean's hilarity, he's tripped too many times to count. The entire day leaves Sam angry, wet, cold and bruised. Add to that the fact that they are looking for a fast, man-eating monster that has so far killed 9 people, and Sam is not a happy guy.

So, yeah. A typical bad day for Sam Winchester. Then of course, comes the kicker. Research pointed to a wendigo. The thing that they think they spotted a while back is _definitely not_ a wendigo. Not just a bad day then, also a bad hunt. Though in Sam's own defence, he called it. He _did_ in fact tell his father that he heard a weird whistling sound through the woods that didn't match the typical signs for a wendigo. He was also completely ignored by his father on that account, and his brother had just muttered a fond comment along the lines of Sam being 'a kid with too much damn imagination'.

Ah, yes. Wonderful to see how seriously he is taken by his family.

A bad day, and it is about to get a whole lot worse. Because, just as the Winchester trio is entering their third hour of walking, the thing they're hunting decides to show. Only.. it's not the thing they're hunting.

As usual, the Winchesters walk in a tight formation, a line of three with the John taking point, and Dean guarding the rear. Sam, as the Benjamin of the family, is delegated to perpetually walk in the middle. It is dark out, a new moon, and through the thick leaves of the forest it is difficult to see further than a few feet ahead. A steady sheen of rain drops through the leaves above them, the pit-pat of the drops making it almost impossible to hear the sounds of the forest. This puts them in a very dissatisfying position. After all, they are basically doing this hunt blind, something that John Winchester abhors. Still, they all know the danger, and the circumstances are certainly keeping them on edge.

Every crack, or scuffle or creak around them is a potential threat. Any movement out in the dark can be their death.

But they still don't see it coming.

One second they're scrambling over the uneven ground, the next Dean is flying through the air, hitting a tree, and sliding down in a boneless heap. Too sets of voices cry out simultaneously. One in fear, the other in anger.

"Get to your brother." John growls at his youngest son, his entire focus on the _thing_ that did this to his son. And he really hopes that Sam is wrong and that the creature, turns out to be a wendigo. Sam doesn't need to be told to check on his brother. He's running for Dean almost before the man hits the ground. Sam's long arm reaches out for his brother's face.

"Dean!" he urges. Dean doesn't listen, doesn't open his eyes. "Damn it, Dean! Wake up."

Dean stays still.

Behind Sam, John Winchester is facing off with the monster that swept away his son. His head snaps to and fro with every crack that rents the forest, eyes scanning for a monster he can't see.

A soft piercing whistle fills the air.

John turns towards the sound, pointing his gun and pressing the trigger at the movement he can see a few feet away. A flare of fire lights up the darkness.

The fire bounces off of what is definitely not a wendigo. In the light of the flames John sees a large, hulking figure, the size of a bear. Its form is eerily human, its eyes blood red. A string of loud expletives and curses flows out of John Winchester's mouth. This is not good. He knows what is going to happen next, before it happens. While he is still scrabbling for his hand gun, the figure reaches out and swipes him to the side as if he weighs nothing. A scream rents the air as John, too, is thrown to the side in a mesmerising arch. _Sam_ , his thoughts started, but they are cut out harshly when he hits a tree.

"Dad!" Sam's yell comes out more like a screech, his deepening voice skipping over a few octaves. His head snaps towards where his father has fallen, willing him to get up and kill the dark shape that is moving towards him through the sheen of rain.

Dad stays still.

He looks over one more time at his brother, hoping for once that Dean will get up and be his annoyingly protective self.

Dean stays still.

Right. Okay. That leaves Sam as the protector. Last one standing, last line of defence, last chance to kill the monster before it kills them. Fine. Sam can do that. He can kill a monster. He can protect his family.

The loud whistle seems to reach its pitch as Sam takes a cautious step forward, raising up the flare gun he has somehow managed to salvage through the panic of his family's downfall. The dark shadow stalks closer, large and menacing. Sam steadies his hand, the fire might not have done much when his father let it loose on the creature, but it feels reassuring none the less.

Suddenly the shape lurches to the side, changing direction so quickly that Sam nearly misses it. The shape is lurching, Sam realises with a painful jolt of his heart, to where his father is lying unconscious on the ground. Before Sam can even form a coherent thought as to what he is doing, he finds himself jumping forward and pumping burst after burst of flame at the creature. It all bounces off it of course, and doesn't seem to do anything to divert the thing's attention from his father.

So, he yells out with as much force at he could muster, "Hey! Fog horn! Over here!"

He prays to a God who hasn't made a habit of answering his pleas, that the creature is not deaf. And that it is at least intelligent enough to realise that what Sam yelled is an insult. The thing growls, but it doesn't turn its head. It's still nearing Dad, though, and Sam knows he has to do something. Anything.

'Anything' turns out to be throwing the empty flare at the beast, hitting it square on the back of the head as he waves his arms and lets out another loud bellow. And for the first time in nearly a year, his voice stays even in and low. It sounds almost threatening to his own ears.

"Hey, wookie! I know you can hear me!" He yells. Dean would call him out for that if he were conscious, would call it blasphemy that Sam is calling a monster like this after Chewy's peace-loving kind. It works, though, so Sam doesn't care.

Only, now the thing is coming for him, its staggering footfalls moving towards Sam. Briefly, he thinks _oh, shit!_ Then he sees his family, unconscious and helpless, and he remembers that this is exactly what he wants. He needs to get the thing away from Dean and Dad.

The dark shadow approaches, as Sam walks back quickly, away from his family. Away from every feeling of safety. The whistle permeates the air again, cutting through the rain. With the whistle, the creatures red eyes seem to start glowing, two fiery embers in the wet night. Maybe Sam's imagining it though. Fear does strange things to people, after all.

Sam has moved back almost five feet, the shadowy figure stalking him and leaving his family behind. Sam's hand inches to the small of his back, scrabbling for the knife he knows is always there. The was loathe to steal one of Dean's weapons in case his brother would need it when he woke up. He has to delve under four layers of clothing and a heavy jacket before he feels the handle of his knife. Silver, and infused with holy water, it'll take just about anything out. He just hopes that whatever he's facing now is also on that list.

The forest has gone eerily quiet save for the ominous whistle that comes from the creature and Sam's measured footfalls as he moves back. The two of them keep constant eye contact, trying to figure out who is the predator and who the prey. They're measuring each other, Sam knows that. Looking which of the two is weaker, judging whether to make the first move or let the other go first.

The whistling shadow has the upper hand in this.

Tall, dark, with eyes that look like their bleeding fluorescent blood, the thing would instil fear in anyone. But Sam, despite his hatred for the family business _is_ a hunter. Wat scares him most about this monster is not its appearance, or the fact that it has killed nine people. No, what scares him is how easily both Dean and Dad were taken out. If even they can't kill this thing…. How will Sam ever manage?

Sam has to go through more trouble to look frightening. Mostly because monsters don't usually scare easily, but also because despite all the training his father makes him go through, he's still just a skinny 15 year old. So he gives the monster a look of sheer determination, of a deep-going anger that promises vengeance. It's not entirely fake either, this thing hurt his family, he's going to hurt it back. Really though, Sam just hopes that the monster gets intimidated by the fact that someone dares to insult him. Going by the creature's looks, that can't be something that happens often…

The intimidating eye-contact is broken seconds after Sam thinks this, when the hunter stumbles over a root behind him that he didn't see coming. He's half surprised by how long he's managed to walk over the uneven ground ( _backwards!_ ) without tripping. The other half of him realises he just broke whatever intimidation tactic he had going for him when a dark shadow looms over him. It's physically impossible for the thing to have reached him so fast, but there it is. The whistle is louder from close up, and Sam can see now that what looked like fur in the light of his father's flares is in fact a smoky substance that billows off of the creature in waves. When the thing's hand – large, and clawed and absolutely terrifying – grabs hold of his shoulder he feels, despite the beast's insubstantial look, that it is in very corporeal.

Without any knowledge on the lore of this thing, if there is any, Sam knows he'll need to wing it. As a Winchester, things tend to go wrong, so has learnt early in life how to improvise. As the 'clumsy Winchester', he's learnt how to improvise without looking stupid.

So it's with a decent amount of grace that Sam punches his knife upwards into the things stomach as he tries to worm away from the thing. To his surprise, the knife actually goes deep into the body, and the beast rears back with an ear-shattering whistle. Sam takes that as his cue to scramble back, and on to his feet. He turns and runs with as much speed as he can. A short look back confirms that he thing is not dead, it's following him. Good. That leads the creature away from Dean and Dad at least.

When the thing walks it lurches and stumbles, and for a moment Sam hopes that he'll be able to outrun it. Then he remembers how quick the thing was upon him when he tripped and he sees that the thing doesn't _need_ to run. It just 'appears' a few meter from where it was before. Almost like it's teleporting. It's fast and efficient and creepy as hell. And it's gaining on Sam, seemingly unaffected by the blade Sam just stuck in him.

Branches whip past his face, he nearly falls over dozens of times, but he manages to remain on his feet out of sheer will alone. The thing is still behind him. He can hear the shrill whistle, behind him, in front of him, everywhere. The all-encompassing sound pounds at his eardrums and numbs his mind. He can't think straight. Then there's suddenly no ground under his feet and he rolling down a muddy hill, branches and bushes scratching and bludgeoning him open. The world whips past in a whirl of greys and blacks, and that whistle just keeps sounding he entire time. He wonders if maybe the whole thing is just a figment of his imagination. He hopes he's just dreamed Dad and Dean getting hurt, hopes that he's just gone insane. If he hasn't, he knows the whistle will drive him to insanity soon.

Sam's fall comes to a halt against a large tree, it punches the air from his lungs as he crashes into it, and for a few beautiful moments he hears nothing, and sees only the flashing lights of breathless pain behind his closed eyes. Then he manages to take a breath and the whistling is back. Closer this time.

The creature leans over him, reaching out with hazy hands.

Sam notes with some surprise that he's still gripping his knife, apparently it slipped back out of the creature when it reared back. The blade is clutched in his right hand, knuckles white and red with blood. It might not be much use, but Sam tries anyway. With another smooth move his slices upwards, but his knife doesn't find purchase, it slides through empty air. Then his hand is hit with a blow that sends the knife flying, and his arm hitting the tree with a loud crack. White hot pain explodes from his elbow upwards, as he sees crimson blood flowing from three scratches in his skin. Another claw clutches around his neck, turning his face away from his hand. The eyes he looks into are as red and liquid as the blood that seeps from Sam, burning into his like the whistle scorches his ears.

The claw on Sam's neck grows tighter. He squirms against the hold, but that only ignites new pain in his ribcage. The edges are growing darker. Things start getting fuzzy. God, this is such a bad day, the thinks vaguely.

Then the world goes absolutely dark, and Sam is finally free of the whistling that was driving him mad.

 _Author's Note: So this is the first chapter, and I'm not exactly sure how long it will be. Let me know if you like it, or have any tips :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note:**_ _I AM SO SORRY. Seriously, I'm pretty sure there are laws against updates this late. Wow. Anyway, if you are for some reason still following this story, here's the update. Heheh. And I'd like to thank StyxxsOmega, Kas3y, and whimsicalbarwench for their reviews, as well as anyone who alerted the story : )_

 _Enjoy!_

 **Chapter 2: Darkest before dawn**

Dean wakes up lazily. The laziness is not by choice exactly, but more out of necessity. He literally cannot bring himself to move with the stabbing pain in the back of his head. Seriously, it feels like he's got a knife wedged in there or something, and he just knows that if he so much as moves his head he'll be hurling all over himself. Feels like a damn hangover. It's not though, he can tell. Sure, he's been pretty drunk at times but he's always ended up back in a bed. Right now though, he is _not_ lying on a bed. Whatever he's lying on feels wet and uneven, while his head is sat uncomfortably against something hard and pointy. Also, he's pretty sure there's a pinecone poking at his ass.

So not cool.

He remembers that he was on a hunt. In a forest. With a monster. The thing came out of nowhere, and he remembers flying through the air, courtesy of a clawed arm and a whistle that he's pretty sure burned out his eardrums. His ears hurt even in retrospect. Vaguely he wonders if the thing is still around. He should probably look around for it, but even the thought of opening his eyes sends waves of nausea to his throat. It's not like he hasn't _tried_ opening them, it's more that his eyelids seem permanently glued together.

That's fine.

After all, he doesn't really need to open his eyes right now. He doesn't feel like he's in any imminent danger. The monster's probably being taken care of right this moment and when that's done they can go home and he can sleep for a century. But they'll take care of the monster, and then of him. Dad and Sam with….

SAM!

And just like that his eyes are open, and he's sitting up looking for his brother. Sure enough, as soon as he's sitting, he bends over and expels his entire greasy dinner. But he needs… Fuck… He needs to see where Sam is, because he was still here when the monster was here and he needs to be okay, and Dean needs to make sure of that.

When Dean can finally manage to open his eyes again and sit up, he's greeted by the sight of a small clearing. It's still dark and the grey skeletons of the trees rise menacingly above him. That's not what frightens him though.

What's scary is that though this clearing is – mercifully- monster-free… it is also Sam-free.

And that… is bad.

Dean's heart is somewhere in his stomach and it's beating up a storm. When he looks around a second time and sees a leather and denim lump lying at the base of a tree to his right, his heart drops the remaining four inches out of his body. He'd recognise that particular lump anywhere, and he knows it's Dad.

And that… is also bad.

Because if Dad is here, and Sam is not. That means that Sam is alone. And if the monster is not here either that means that Sam is alone with the monster. And Dean can't even see if Dad is breathing from here. And he's not sure if he can even manage to move from where he's seated. And he could lose his entire family here tonight if he doesn't get the hell up to his father.

His father, who is completely alive.

And then, when Dad's awake the man will know what to do to find Sammy.

Sammy, who is also alive and completely fine.

And when they've found Sammy they'll go and find the son of a bitch that did this to them and kill him.

That monster will _not_ be alive after seeing Winchester wrath.

And after all of that they'll all go home, take a shower and sleep for three weeks. Sounds like a brilliant plan. And really he only has to do one thing to make it work, Dean tells himself.

He just has to get up.

John Winchester wakes up to the fearful pleading of his eldest son. When he opens his eyes he looks into two panicked orbs. Just like that John's heart rate goes up. If there's something around that can make his son look like this, then it is bad.

Really bad.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a soft voice whispers an even more terrifying possibility. There's only one thing that can make Dean look scared, and that's Sam in danger. With the boy looking like this there's only one possibility. _Sam is dead._

Which is impossible.

Because that would tear whatever sanity he has left right out of him. So John reaches out, momentarily ignoring the painful beating in near his ribs. A small part of his mind helpfully provides that he must have hit the tree he's leaning against with his side. He must have bruised, or broken his ribs, and that the hit must have caused him to pass out. The rest of his mind is focussed on the blood leaking from his oldest son's head and the absence of his youngest.

"Dean." The name comes out as an order, rough voice harsh with fear. And damn it, doesn't he always sound like a fucking general? Even when he's comforting his son. "You okay?"

Dean nods, then pales considerably as he is painfully reminded of his head wound. John reaches out, calloused fingers trailing along the broken skin at Dean's hairline.

"You got a concussion?" He asks, putting some extra authority behind his voice because he knows the boy will always downplay his injuries. Especially when Sam is on the line.

Sure enough Dean replies with a diplomatic, "I don't know."

But John can see pain lines around glassy green eyes and he knows already that his son does indeed have a concussion. And that it's probably going to come back and bite them in the ass. All he really wants to know is where Sam is. Wants to know that Sam _is_ and not _was_. But first Dean, because you make sure a soldier is uninjured before you ask them about a mission.

And you make sure your son is uninjured because you want him to be okay.

"Any other injuries?" John asks then, "And don't lie to me, because I will find out."

"No, I'm…" Dean's voice almost shakes, "I'm a bit bruised but I'm fine. Dad, Sammy, he's…"

"Where is Sam?"

"I don't know. I woke up and he was gone." A moment of silence follows that sentence as both men try to quell the impending panic that's starting in their hearts.

"You were awake longer. What happened?" The words are spoken softly, but John can hear the accusation under the words. _You were awake, you should have taken care of him._ And he should have, damn it.

John sits up, momentarily ignoring the spikes of pain emanating from his chest. With a soft pull of his hand, he wipes the rain off his face. _What happened?_ He grills himself, _what happened before you woke up here?_

"I…" he begins, and shit, he wishes he didn't sound vulnerable like this in front of his son. He takes a deep breath. He needs to think, needs to forget the fear that's fogging up his mind. Dean's panicking, and John really can't afford to do the same. Hunter mode, that's what he needs. Just another hunt, and they need to find their victim alive. Now more than ever.

"I used the flare on it, and that just bounced off. Then it threw me into this tree before I could really try anything else. Something must have happened between then and now." John's voice is cool, his mind clear. The thing doesn't leave behind bodies, which means it has a lair. That's why he thought it was a wendigo. The MO fits so perfectly. But it's not, and it has Sam back wherever it's stashing its prey. They just have to find where that is.

Suddenly, John notices that Dean has paled. He briefly wonders if it's the concussion, then he realises what he just said; that Sam had to deal with this fire-resistant monster on his own.

"Dean," he allows the part of him that's still the father of two sons to come out, "Sam can handle himself, he's been trained for things like this."

"He doesn't even like hunting. If he dies…" Dean starts, and if John didn't know already, this would be a confirmation that the boy has a concussion. In Dean's own words, he doesn't _do_ chick-flick moments. Unless he his concussed, apparently.

"He ain't dead. We'll get him out alive, like we always do." There's so much conviction in his voice that he almost starts believing his own words. Dean looks up at him with a look that would break his heart if it hadn't already been ripped and trodden on by this life. It's that look of utter trust and hero worship that he hasn't seen in his son's eyes since he was eight. The same look that Sam reserves solely for Dean.

 _God, the faith you have in me,_ John thinks.

In his mind John starts planning, "Alright, Dean, we need to regroup, figure out what this thing is and what can hurt it, anything you can remember…" He waves his hand vaguely towards the pack that Dean is practically sitting on, signalling him to hand it over.

"No, first we find Sam." It's an order, almost, and John would have said something about that if the times weren't so dire.

"We need to figure out what will hurt this thing," John replies instead, "Hand me the pack."

When Dean does nothing, he adds, "If we want to save Sam we need to be able to fight this thing."

Reluctantly, Dean hands the pack over with a look somewhere between a plea and a threat. Choosing to ignore that look, John digs through the bag. Two pistols, a shotgun, and iron and silver rounds peek up at him from the bag. Then at the bottom lies a flask holy water and his leather journal. He's never been happier to over-pack, especially in the knowledge that Sam has (not had, _has_ , John reminds himself) his own knife on him, the hooked one he got for his birthday.

He sets his hand on Dean's shoulder, looks him straight in the eyes and asks, "You good to walk, son?"

Dean head does a twitch that's almost a nod, and that's good enough for both of them.

"Let's go find your brother, then."

With those words, and the little hope that they have left, they set off in search of a stubborn fifteen-year-old named Sam.

Sam wakes up half deaf. There's an annoying whistle in his ear that just won't go away, and he briefly wonders if Dean finally managed to sneak him into a bar last night. But that doesn't make sense, because there's fire in his right arm, eating at it like a hungry ghoul, and his ribs jostle every time he tries to breath. Something is very, very wrong.

Then the memories come crashing back, and his eyes open on a gasp. Wherever he is, the place is sparsely lit, shadows filling most of the room. Stone walls stick out from a mossy ground that has long since been reclaimed by nature. If he squints, he thinks he can see an actual _tree_ sticking through the cracked roof of the place. That would explain the water that drips into his shoulder every once in a while.

The stench that permeates the place is almost too much to handle, dank and rotten, like death came here to fart. And Sam really hopes that he made that analogy because of Dean, and not because he would actually ever think something like that himself. The smell is strong enough that he can practically taste it on his tongue when his mouth is open, and he knows, he _knows_ that means he's holed up with a dead body. Actually, considering the death toll that attracted them to this hunt in the first place: several dead bodies.

It's only after taking in his surroundings that he realises that he's tied up. Not just tied up, but strung from the ceiling like a slaughtered animal. And that's really a metaphor that he's trying his best to ignore. Something rough, like a rope or a vine bind his hands together over his head, where it leads to the ceiling. He's hanging from his arms, and it's really a miracle that nothing has been dislocated yet.

All in all, he's in a pretty bad position. Still, where he is, or how he's strung up, that's not what makes his heart race, or the hair on his neck stand up. What does, is the absence of the thing that took him here. There's no sign of bloody red eyes or billowy smoke. No claws or slow steps as it drags forward.

Just that bloody whistle that cuts through his ear drums and into his mind.

Which means it's here, only out of his line of sight. That alone, is terrifying enough.

And then he sees the bodies.

Corpses half hidden by shadows, hanging from the wall like macabre puppets. The ground too, is lined with carcases in various stages of decomposition. Sam's heart skips a beat while nausea rises in his throat. He really does not want to puke, but with the smell, and the dead eyes that seem to be staring back at him, there's really not much he can do.

So he gags, hanging his head forward so as not to puke on himself, but nothing comes out. He wonders why he does that, why he still tries to work against the indignity of puke on his clothes when he'll probably be dead in a few hours. No. No, no, no.

 _Stop panicking!_ It's dad's voice, stinging through that impossible whistle. Sure, Sam knows it's not really here, that it's just a figment of his imagination, but he has never been happier to hear the voice. Even if it is only in his mind.

 _Dude, breathe._ And maybe he should wonder at the fact that his inner voices are his family's, because that probably means all kinds of complicated psychological stuff, but it's working. As long as it's working, Sam is not going to complain.

Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

In. Out. In. Out.

It's while Sam is doing this that he sees the markings on the floor.

"Beidh mé ag ithe" it reads in what Sam recognises as Irish. And Sam knows what that means, because John made sure he could read Gealic.

 _I will devour_.

Shit.

The two oldest Winchesters stumble through the thick underbrush of the wood. Roots stick out everywhere, and the rain makes for an almost impenetrable barrier. Even with the rain, and the darkness, they can still make out Sam's trail. It's blatantly obvious where he walked, broken twigs, and deep footprints in the mud. Sam wasn't trying to hide, and Dean is really trying to ignore what that means.

The creature must have been right behind Sam. Or, they guess it was, because there are no tracks other than Sam's, and they know he would have covered them if it were necessary.

John is brainstorming. Loudly. Though, really, everything is loud right now. Every drop of rain, or crack of a twig sends a spike of pain through Dean's head. And Dad's murmurs are worse, every word feels like a stab through his eyes.

But that really doesn't matter, because they need to find Sam.

John is having trouble with this, they went in on good intel, but it all turned out false, and now he has no idea what they're hunting. Usually always in control, the prospect of facing an unknown enemy is terrifying. Dean notices, of course. He's a perceptive like that, he always notices things.

Sam would have figured this out by now, Dean thinks. Kid is too smart for his own good sometimes. No matter what situation he is in, he's probably sitting somewhere with the solution to their dilemma already figured out, waiting for them to do the same. Then when they find him, he'll complain about how long it took them. He won't brag though, Sam never brags for some reason. He bitches, sure, but he never brags.

He can brag this time though. He can brag and bitch all he wants, if that only means that he's alive.

There's a root, and Dean trips, the sudden move down almost makes his head explode, and for a second everything goes white. When he can see again he's looking into Dad's worried face, and that in itself is bad. Dad, the awesome John Winchester, does not _get_ worried. Angry, sure. Vengeful, righteous, compassionate and kind sometimes. But not doubtful. Not worried.

"Dean." It's not a question, not even an order. It's one of those statements that only Dad can give. Dean knows what it means, even if he's the only one that does. _You need to do this, because there is no other choice,_ is what it means.

Which is true, there is no other choice. It's Sam on the line; Dean's entire life on a plate. So Dean will be fine. Dean will walk as far as he has to. Dean will do anything he needs to do, because what Dad needs, what _he_ needs, is Sam.

Always Sam.

"I will devour." Sam says loudly in an attempt to drown out the all-encompassing whistle that is slowly driving him insane. He says it a few times. Shouts it, whispers it, stresses each word separately, as if that will help him figure this thing out.

It just doesn't make sense. Whatever nightmare this creature crawled out of, it doesn't eat its prey. As far as Sam can see, none of the victims have actually been eaten. Some bodies are hanging, some are strewn over the floor, but they're all intact. Well, mostly intact. There are deep puncture wounds in the necks and chests of some of them, but no bite wounds. Actually, Sam realises as he thinks back to the creature that captured him, he doesn't remember seeing teeth, or even a mouth on the creature at all.

 _I will devour._ What does it mean?

Through his foggy mind Sam can only imagine large molars and sharp front teeth cutting deep into his flesh and eating him alive. Blood and muscle and gore spouting everywhere, and God, he really wants to get out of here. He reminds himself that though the other victims are dead, they have not been eaten alive.

Vaguely, Sam realises that the fact that that is somehow comforting for him, is so screwed up.

Sam closes his eyes. Dad would know what to do. Like always. And Dean would definitely have figured this out by now. He would have systematically gone through every creature he knew, and come up with the only solution. Everyone says that Sam is the smart one, but he knows better. In a situation like this, in any situation really, Sam needs Dean.

Suddenly the whistle grows louder, and all the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand up. Slinking slowly into view, with its shocky teleportation, the creature appears. Deep black in comparison to its grey surroundings, red eyes boring straight through Sam.

Slowly, so very slowly, it reaches out a clawed hand, and lays it delicately on Sam's chest. Hardly daring to breathe, Sam looks into its eyes, deep, red, unfathomable.

As the creature slowly digs one claw after the other into Sam's chest, he has a sudden epiphany. Beidh mé ag ithe. Not I will devour, but I will _consume_.

That really doesn't sound much better.


End file.
